Nightmares
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: Someone is having dreams involving black leather, chains, and a whip. Too bad it's not in a good way. GSR, WIP...yes, I know! Please mind the rating; this one is actually a little dark. Reviews are love, so write me some yummies!
1. The Dream

Author's Note: That's right, another chaptered story! And you thought Bella would never do anything but one shots... This one is pretty dark in places, so please mind the rating. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Contributions to the BellaOwnsGrissom fund can be sent to me, if you like. But not seriously. Seriously, not.

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Chapter One: The Dream

_The room was dark, with splashes of blood-red light the only illumination. Sara was pressed against cold tile, her breath coming in short pants. A hand in a long, tight, black leather glove was the only thing pinning her to the wall, but she was helpless to move. Wide, beautiful eyes gazed into hers with the sort of detached curiosity one might give to a slightly dull museum exhibit._

_The sudden crack of a bullwhip against the concrete floor made Sara whimper in terror. The movement sent her captor's long auburn hair swinging away from the pale, lovely face. Sara's wide dark eyes took in the tight leather bustier, the form-fitting leather pants, the shiny black boots that went up just over the knee, with four inch spikes for heels._

_"Do you think you know him?" the beautiful woman holding her prisoner asked, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. "Do you think you can understand the way his mind works, what he craves, what he despises, the deepest secrets of his heart? Who are you, to have such presumptions?" The whip cracked against the floor again, and Sara bit back a scream of terror._

_Across the room, hands bound in silver chains to the wall at waist level, stood the man around whom all her captor's questions revolved. Unlike Sara, who had been stripped naked and thrust, shivering, into this barren dungeon, he was fully clothed in a long black button-down and black trousers, an outfit he could easily have donned for work or to teach a lecture at a nearby university. His feet were bare, and it was only this and the chains holding him to the wall that made him look at all different from the man she saw every day. He was watching her impassively, his face expressionless as it all too often was, his blue eyes trained on her face, not even sliding down for a moment to appreciate or revolt at her nudity. He did not flinch when the whip cracked, or when Sara let out a frightened sound. He stood, motionless, watching her face._

_"Who do you think you are?" the woman demanded again, and this time the whip cracked out, but not against the floor. It struck her across the thighs, just below her pelvis, and she screamed, wanting to slump to the floor but unable to. Four slender fingers and an opposable thumb, wrapped in black leather, held her in place._

_"I love him…" Sara whispered piteously, and the sweet feminine laughter of the woman beside her filled the cavernous chamber._

_"You don't know him," she sneered. "You can't love him." The whip arced upward, sang down into her flesh again, this time across her stomach. She screamed once more, watching her own bright red blood drip down onto her feet. Her eyes met his across the room._

_He stood motionless, watching her face._

_"Tell her to stop!" Sara cried out, trying to lunge forward to him. The hand easily held her back, and she writhed against it, against the cold tile of the wall, against the pain in her belly and legs. "Tell her to stop!"_

_The whip stretched toward the ceiling, coiled slightly in her captor's grasp. It cut through the air like a knife through silk, cleanly, beautifully, and slashed across her face…_

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TBC...


	2. Aftermath

Author's Note: In response to a couple of reviews--I actually have been working on this story for several months now, so I guess my muse is always a little angsty! It likes to bounce back and forth between "Oh, god, the pain" and simply "Oh, god!" I just needed to figure out a direction and do some major editing, so that's why it's appearing now. Keep the faith! It will go good places. And that brings me to my second response...when I said it was a dark story, I did not mean to imply that it will be depressing or violent all the way through--just that some of the things in the dreams are more graphically violent than I usually write, and I wanted my audience to be prepared. Those things being clarified--here comes chapter two! (Also, this chapter should make it clear, but the timeframe for this story is early to mid season five, prior to "Nesting Dolls" and "Committed.") Thanks, as always, for reading!

Disclaimer: Don't sue. I have a CSI tee shirt my husband bought me from Vegas, but that's it. I swear.

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Chapter Two: Aftermath

Sara sat up abruptly in bed, her face and body drenched in sweat and tears. Her thin blue pajamas clung to her damply, and she shoved the covers from her, scrambling from the bed and into her bathroom to heave frantically into the toilet. As her dinner and stomach acids revolted up her esophagus and splashed into the pool of water and against the porcelain, she clung with scrabbling fingers to the edge of the seat. It was long minutes before the vomiting subsided, and she could slump against the cool floor of the bathroom. She slowly unbuttoned her pajama top, tugged it from her clammy shoulders. Standing with some help from the bathroom sink, she pushed the matching blue pants down around her ankles and stepped out, reaching over to flush the toilet. Her fingers found the hot water handle of her shower, cranked it on. As the steam rose, she pushed aside the curtain, nearly falling into the boiling water.

She had to turn down the temperature to avoid blistering her skin, but she kept the water as hot as she could stand as she stood under its furious spray. Fifth night in a row. This dream had woken her nearly every night for a week, most of the time after little more than an hour or two of sleep. She was unable to return to bed after each nightmare, too terrified that the terror would repeat, or worse, pick up where it had left off.

Her lips were dry, and she licked them, longing for a nice long pull off a beer bottle wet with condensation, or a sip from a clinking glass of whiskey. But after the dismay of being pulled over and given a breathalyzer test, and the humiliation of being turned over to Grissom like a truant child and taken home to sleep it off by her boss, she was fighting the demonically strong urge to drink. Instead, she fumbled for her bottle of body wash, opened it, and inhaled the clean scents of eucalyptus and spearmint. The smell was woodsy, both sharp and soothing, and she poured a big glob onto a soft white sponge, slowly massaging the suds into her shoulders and chest. Once upon a time, in a steamy shower like this, soap running slickly down her skin, she would have thought of him standing behind her, touching her gently, running his fingers through the damp ribbons of her hair. Now, if she closed her eyes, all she could see was silver chains around his wrists, the odd delicacy of his bare feet, the sensual flow of black silk and cotton over his tanned skin…and blue eyes, piercing and cold, staring into her own as his lover beat her to death.

Her eyes shot open wide, the whites delicately threaded with crimson so prevalent that on Doc Robbins' slab, the phrase "petechial hemorrhaging" would be offered forth as indicative of cause of death. _Because, of course, the whip slash across her face would be invisible_. She shuddered, the soapy sponge slipping into the hot water pooling around her feet. Fumbling for it, she slipped and sat down hard in the tub, and the tears came again, streaming down her cheeks as animalistic cries slipped out from between her lips. Her hands moved numbly over her body as she sat limp beneath the hot flow of water, scrubbing her feet, her calves, her thighs. She imagined as she sobbed that she could feel the sting of the soap in the dream wounds she had sustained, washing in circles over her thighs and stomach. She lifted the sponge and squeezed, soapy suds dripping down onto her breasts and throat, her sinuses and throat closing with the force of her tears.

The eucalyptus and crying were cathartic, and by the time she could stand again to rinse off, her sobs had slowed, and she could see well enough to reach for a gentle peach face scrub and rub the fruity exfoliating lotion over her skin. She massaged the granules into her forehead, her cheekbones, her temples and her chin. She saw from behind her closed eyes and inside her mind the thick scrub obliterating the raw red slash of Lady Heather's whip mark. She had to stop herself from scrubbing her skin away, so caught up was she in the visualization.

Last, though normally she would have done it first, she worked lathery shampoo into her short dark hair, the scent of lavender beginning to overpower the mint and woodsy tones of her body wash. A rinse, a layer of conditioner, another rinse, and she shut off the rapidly cooling water, standing still for a moment to listen to the drip of water beads sliding off her skin and hair and plummeting to the damp surface beneath her feet.

From the back of the bathroom door she tugged down a plush white towel, tipped her head upside down and wound it around her hair the way her mother had taught her to when she was a little girl. Another towel, this one an extra-thick bath sheet, she wrapped around her body and tucked in securely above her left breast. She moved slowly out into the living room, the kitchen, and set her teapot on the stove filled with tap water. She would make some hot chocolate, as she had every night for the past five nights, trying to avoid the beer and stronger liquors that called to her from her refrigerator and cabinets. Actually, it was about 10 am, but even though the sun and moon continued on their linguistically-dictating course for the rest of the world, she could not seem to wrap her mind and tongue around the correct light-based phrasing for her life. She worked at night; she slept during the day. But when she left the lab every morning—or afternoon, sometimes—she still said goodnight. Everyone did.

Blinds and shades darkened her apartment to a degree where she could pretend it was night, that she was not on a humanly abnormal cycle, but sadly it just meant that almost everywhere she went, every time she went, it was various shades of darkness—inky black, dusky purple, velvety indigo. Appropriate, maybe, to live in perpetual shadow. She was not sure.

The pot whistled, drawing her out of her morose reverie, and she pulled a packet of instant cocoa out of the cupboard and dumped its contents into an enormous mug, covering the pale brown dust with hot water and then, from her fridge, a small amount of whole organic milk. She no longer ate meat or even fish since Grissom's experiments had made her nauseated at even the thought of pork or ground beef, but dairy products were still her downfall, and kept her from calling herself vegan. She dipped a silvery spoon into the cup and stirred, first counterclockwise, then clockwise, then counterclockwise again. Satisfied, she lifted it to her lips and took a tentative sip.

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TBC...


	3. The Visit

Author's Note: The question of chapter three: do we REALLY need jammies? (Well, gotta lighten the mood somehow!) Please note that Grissom is checking on Sara because this story occurs less than a week after Sara's DUI. It's not random. :)

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Chapter Three: The Visit

Gentle taps at her front door startled her so badly that she nearly dropped the mug to the floor. She set it on the counter with trembling fingers and crossed the room to the door, peering out through the small circular glass at eyelevel.

Grissom stood outside, a soft black tee shirt, beige suede jacket and stonewashed jeans indicating that this was more than likely not a work call. His feet were sandal-clad, and he had two fingers pressed to his lips as he studied her door as closely as if it were an important piece of evidence in a murder or kidnapping case. He raised his other hand tentatively and knocked again, this time a little louder.

Sara looked down at herself, seeing lightly tanned skin and thick white cotton…and nothing else. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom, dropping both the towel around her body and the one holding up her hair to the floor and reaching for a clean pair of pajamas from an open dresser drawer. Her fingers closed around black satin, and she winced, but one look told her that nothing else remained in the drawer. She pulled on the button-up short sleeved top and the long pants, trying to ignore the cool slide of the fabric against her skin, still heated from the shower. Still, her nipples puckered and her skin goose-fleshed beneath the satin, and she rolled her eyes and shoved a hand through her hair.

One more knock. He would be leaving soon, assuming she was asleep. Maybe she should let him think that, let him go. It would probably be for the best. One more look at him, and her nightmares might come flooding back so violently that she would start crying all over again, and that would never do. But she found herself retracing her steps to the door, pulling back the deadbolt, twisting the knob. She pulled the door towards her and met his eyes.

"Hi."

"Sara." His voice was low, though she knew that at this time of the morning there would be no fear of waking her neighbors. "Can I come in?"

"Is something wrong?" she stalled, trying to hide a visible flinch when she caught his eyes drifting down her body, taking in her wet hair, her simply cut but fabric-sensual sleepwear, her bare feet. It was only a second, and then his eyes were back on hers, but she felt as if she had been stripped again, and was waiting, trembling, to be dragged back into the blood-red room…

"No. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Did I wake you?"

"Uh, no." She could not lie when her hair and the fresh scents of soap and shampoo wafting off her skin spoke to a recent shower. "But I'm fine."

He pursed his lips and leaned one hand against the doorjamb, too casual. "Can I come in for a moment?"

"I—" For the life of her, she could not come up with a plausible excuse. "Sure."

He slipped past her into the warmly lit room, taking in the dark red walls, the richly finished wood of her cabinets, the cozy and inviting setting she created for the friends she did not have and the lovers she never entertained. He had seen them once before, five days ago, after he had brought her home from her devastating night of inebriation. But he seemed to study the rooms anew, as if looking at a crime scene with fresh eyes. She moved into the kitchen and picked up her mug of cocoa, desperate to give her hands something to do besides shake.

"Sit down," she said numbly, taking a sip of the slightly cooled beverage. "Do you want something? Tea, or coffee? I'm having hot chocolate."

"That sounds good," he said, his voice slightly absent, his eyes still searching her apartment, cataloguing every detail. Sara pulled another packet of cocoa from her cabinet and another mug, but her trembling fingers spilled half the powder onto the counter, and she cursed softly.

In a moment Grissom was behind her, reaching for the mug and packet of hot chocolate, probably to save her from dropping the cup as well and slicing her hand on the sharp ceramic. His fingers brushed over hers, warm and callused, and she jerked back so sharply that her back collided with his chest, sending them both stumbling back a few feet before he caught her, hands lightly steadying her hips. She whirled, tugged away, coming to rest against the refrigerator across the room, her breath coming fast and sharp.

"Don't touch me." The words tumbled out before she could process or censor them.

His face creased with concern. "Sara, what's wrong?"

"I think you should go." Apparently, her internal censor had taken the night off entirely. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the fiery sting of an invisible cut.

"Sara." His voice was so soft, so tender, that she felt something inside her break. There was nothing left to stop her words, to make her think through what she was saying, and all her pain and fear and anger began to pour out of her through her lips.

"I just have a question for you."

"Okay." His voice was purposefully neutral, but still soft.

"When you spent the night with her, did Heather chain you to the wall?"

Grissom's face looked as if she had kicked him in the groin with every ounce of her strength. "What?"

"Did she chain you up? Silver chains, like the ones that first victim, the girl, was hung from? I'm just curious."

"Sara—"

She tilted her head, studying his face. "You're wondering how I know." She inhaled deeply. "I was…in the room, with Jim, when you made the call. He told me he needed to get a warrant for Lady Heather's medical supplies, and I said I would go find you. He told me you were already there. It was early morning, Grissom. And I knew."

He was slightly pale now, and his hands were gripping the edge of the counter as he watched her, his eyes tight. "I see."

"So I'm just wondering. Chains?"

"No." The word was clipped, cold, with a hint of an emotion behind it that Sara struggled to identify. For a moment she studied him, lips slightly pursed, and then it hit her. To answer her question, he had to confess that he and Heather had been together that night. And he did not want to, at least not to her. But he had.

"So." She slid a hand up through her damp hair. "Guess I have some details wrong."

"Details?" His tone was so careful that she wanted to slap him.

"I've been dreaming," she blurted out. This was it. If she ever found the little voice that was supposed to be inside her head screaming at her to shut up, she was going to strangle it for abandoning her tonight. "Not dreaming, really. Having nightmares."

"About me?"

She nodded. "Since you brought me home, after—" She could not quite say the words. "After. That night, and every night since."

"It's been more than a year." She knew he was referring to the night he had spent with Lady Heather, and not the night he had taken her home.

Sara's lips twisted in a parody of a smile. "Yes, well. A lot has happened in the past year. Guess bad memories piled on top of each other until the best one made itself into a nightmare."

"You want to tell me how chains are involved in this nightmare?"

She shook her head, some remaining shred of secrecy sealing her lips at last. "I think I'd better not."

With a sigh, Grissom crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I don't think I should leave until you tell me the rest of this."

Hot rage bubbled up in Sara's throat as she stared at him. Always calm, always in control, he would force her to open up to him again, and the experience would only spiral down into more agony when he remained closed off, secretive, imprisoning her outside of his life again.

_Do you think you can understand the way his mind works, what he craves, what he despises, the deepest secrets of his heart?_ The words echoed inside her skull, and she fought against the urge to press her palms to her temples and scream.

"Suit yourself," she said coldly, stepping away from the cool hard surface of her fridge. "I'm going to bed."

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TBC...


	4. Desertion

Author's Note: I hope you're enjoying this story! I broke it down into chapters to make it a little more manageable. It is not yet finished, so if anyone has any thoughts on directions it could take, please feel free to mention them! (And just telling me to make it hot--well, you know that's going to happen!)

Disclaimer: I love playing with Sara's head, but nothing belongs to me except my own twisted brain.

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Chapter Four: Desertion

She walked purposefully down the hall to her bedroom, leaving the door open, making no move to pick up the towels or the previous day's clothes from her floor. She stripped her sweat-scented sheets from the bed, pulling forest green cotton ones from her closet and tucking them around her mattress. A thin pale green blanket came down from the top shelf as well, and she draped it over the bed, and then slid underneath it, turning her face for the first time to the open doorway.

Grissom was standing there, watching her make the bed and then get into it, his shoulder and hip braced against the doorjamb, his face impassive. She leaned over and with a defiant expression, clicked her bedside lamp off. The room plunged into darkness.

"Do you think that hiding under a blanket and turning out the light will end this conversation?" His voice was soft, with a thread of steel running through it.

"No, but my snores probably will."

She heard rather than saw him cross the room, and then the edge of her mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down beside her. She began to tremble, her eyes making out the bluntest angles of his face as they adjusted to the lack of light.

"Sara."

She laughed suddenly, high and nervous. She felt him stiffen beside her. "What?"

"I never thought that this was how you would finally wind up in my bed."

He was so silent and still that she was almost afraid he had stopped breathing. After long moments, he said, "Tell me about this nightmare."

"I never meant to say anything about it in the first place." Somehow, it was easier to talk to him in the dark. She saw his eyes, dark sapphire even in the dim light seeping in through her blinds, fix her with the look she could never resist, never say no to. With a sigh, she sat up.

In slow, halting words, she described the dream that had haunted her for days now—the coldness of the room, her nudity, what he wore and how he was bound and the way he looked at her. She described Lady Heather's attire, the fluidity of the whip she carried, and the pain it caused when the other woman struck her flesh with it. And then, so quietly that he had to strain to hear, she told him what Heather said in every nightmare, the way she accused Sara of not knowing him, not understanding his desires. She only left out the part where she declared, desperately, that she loved him, and the dominatrix's response to that declaration. When she spoke of begging him to tell Lady Heather to stop as the other woman lashed her bloody, she felt him stiffen beside her, and finally speak.

"Those are your exact words? 'Tell her to stop'?"

"Yes," she said softly. "Why?"

"No reason," he replied, and she knew he was lying.

"So, now what? I've told you about the nightmare, like you wanted me to."

Grissom sighed. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "I'm not sure what to do to make them stop."

Sara, who had slid down to stare at the ceiling during her tale, propped herself up on one elbow. "I never expected you to be able to stop them."

"Well, I assumed you brought them up because you thought my presence in them was significant, and that I might be able to provide you with assistance, or at least analysis."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Grissom, not everything is about you." When he quirked an eyebrow upward, she added, "And not everything is rational, or able to be fixed. I told you because I was angry with you."

A flinch flashed across his handsome face. "Angry with me? Because I know about—" He gestured vaguely.

Sara shrugged. "Sure, maybe. That, and a lot of other things."

"The promotion."

"I admit, that stung a little. I still think your reasons were…unusual."

He grinned slightly. "I believe the word you used at the time was stupid."

Sara flushed a little. "I was upset."

He shifted slightly on the bed, moving closer to her, taking her hand in his for the second time in a week. "Sara, you have to understand. I recommended Nick because he is nothing like me, and you and I are…very similar. I said I did it because he didn't want the job, and that was part of it. But like I said to him—the last thing we need in the power structure of the graveyard shift is another me."

She toyed with the edge of the blanket wrapped around her. "I get that, I do. I just never thought patterning myself after you would be seen as a bad thing."

"I don't see it as a bad thing. It's flattering. But Nick provides a contrast to me. I like to bury myself in bugs and experiments, and release stress by riding roller coasters—alone. Nick is, for lack of a better term, a people person. He would have been a good balance. But it's moot now anyway."

Sara stared into the darkness. "Look, I appreciate all of this, Grissom. But you don't owe me anything. You don't need to check up on me, and you don't need to explain anything. I just need some sleep, and everything will be fine." She tugged her hand out of his gently, rolling over so that her back was to him, curling her legs up slightly toward her stomach. The over-sharing, over-talking, was making her uncomfortable. She felt the inexplicable need to pull away, emotionally and physically.

His voice behind her was gentle. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep without more nightmares?"

She turned over. "I'll be fine."

His eyes were tight, sad. "Are you sure?"

Sara sat up again. They were very close, sitting on her bed in the faux midnight created by window shades, body heat mingling. Her head felt a little light, and she leaned forward without much conscious decision and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "I'm sure, Grissom."

Grissom moved away, and she felt tears sting her eyes. "Maybe you're right. I should go."

She reached out, grabbed his wrists. "Ah, the chains again. Always something holding you back." She reached up and touched her face where the lash sting would be, her voice becoming dreamy. "If someone killed me, Grissom, would you process the scene? Would you gently swab up my blood, pluck hairs and fibers from my clothes? Would you watch as David washed the blood from my skin, and then touch me through layers of latex? It might be worth it. It might be the closest to you I'll ever get."

"Sara." He sounded genuinely shocked. "This is excessively macabre, even for you."

"Yeah," she said softly. "It's been that kind of a week."

He leaned very close to her suddenly, his face inches away from hers. She inhaled sharply and jerked back. "What are you doing?"

"Checking your breath." Belatedly, Grissom seemed to realize both that his proximity could have been easily mistaken in the context of her bedroom, and that his honesty might be offensive. Sara shoved the blanket off her and stood up, trembling with anger and frustration.

"You know what? Leave. I never should have let you in in the first place. It's none of your goddamned business what I do or what I dream or what I drink. Get out."

He rose as well, moving to the doorway of her bedroom. "All right."

She stood there, watching him as he crossed the living room and opened her front door. He stepped out into the hall and shut the door carefully and quietly behind him. Sara realized as the click echoed through her apartment that she had not actually expected him to leave. She had thought he would argue with her, maybe try to discuss the dream further, but he had obeyed her, and now he was gone. With an anguished cry birthed and dying in her throat, strangling her, she turned back to her bed and flung herself across it, heaving dry sobs into the sheets. Apparently, her tears had deserted her as well.

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TBC...


	5. Many Unhappy Returns

Author's Note: Some of you were mightily displeased with our dear Grissom at the end of chapter four. Fear no more, ladies and the occasional gent--he redeems himself in the following. Or does he? Enjoy! (By the way, the chapter title is a play on words; 'many happy returns' is a variation on the 'happy birthday' blessing, to my understanding. In this case, several things or people return in this chapter, to less than stellar results.)

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Chapter Five: Many Unhappy Returns

_The crimson light stained her skin, the walls, the floor. Her blood was dark splotches in it, no color, only black liquid on grey concrete. She was lying face up on the surface, her body crisscrossed with the angry red mouths of open wounds. Across the room he stood, manacled to the wall still, looking down on her limp, twisted body with only the faintest hint of sadness in his beautiful blue eyes. Graceful leather-clad fingers trailed down his body, still clothed entirely in black, and slid between his legs to cup him intimately. Now expression crossed his face, that of ecstasy, as his violent and beautiful mistress pleasured him before her prisoner's broken and bleeding body. Lady Heather strode over and ran her black leathered palm over Sara's stomach, covering the slick surface of her glove in blood, and held her hand up to his lips. His tongue snaked out and licked her blood from the dominatrix's hand, his eyes never leaving Sara's face._

_Sara moaned softly, in pain and violation, but the two hardly seemed to notice her except as an exotic living toy for their sadistic sexual game. They fucked passionately in front of her, sounds of slick skin against leather, occasionally trailing a finger or boot or whip through her blood and using the smell, the feel, the taste of her death to heighten their pleasure. She was helpless to crawl away, to even speak to plead with them to kill her. She could only watch, and bleed, and fight for breath—or the ability to stop breathing…_

Sara woke up screaming for the second time that night, her body twisted in the blanket, her hands clutching the sheets so hard that she heard them rip as she returned swiftly and horribly to consciousness.

"Sara." Grissom's voice was beside her, in her room, and for a moment she could not place where she was or who she was or why he was speaking to her so pleasantly when he was killing her and tasting her blood on that bitch's lips—

"No!" she screamed, wrenching away from the sound of his voice, her hands flailing out. One fist caught him squarely in the stomach, and he doubled over. She flew from the bed, the handful of martial arts classes she had taken in college kicking in haphazardly, and shoved him to the floor, straddling his hips. She began to pummel her fists against his chest wildly. "You can't do this to me!"

"Sara!" His voice was filled with desperation and fear. It cut through her confusion and madness, and she flung her body off his, rolling to the floor beside him. She twisted her head away and promptly vomited again, nothing but bile and hot cocoa wrenching free of her tortured digestive system. Tears streamed down her face from the violence of her illness and from her horror, and she shoved her blanket over the damp spot staining her carpet and stumbled to her feet, running for her bathroom, nearly blinded by tears and sweaty hair. Without a second thought, she tore off her second pair of pajamas for the evening and staggered into the shower, tugging the curtain shut behind her and yanking on the faucet. Boiling water struck her skin and she cried out, but did not turn down the temperature. Her skin began to turn bright red under the stream.

"Sara!" Grissom had followed her into the bathroom, and she could see his fingers close around the curtain, about to pull it aside. She reached for a towel she had tossed up over the shower rod some previous evening and pulled it in front of her naked body just as the force of his pull tore the curtain from its rings. She stared at him, face white and drawn, eyes red-rimmed, plush whiteness hiding everything important but not the fact that the burning-hot water was about to raise blisters on her freckled skin. He was breathing hard, disheveled and wild-eyed, but his scientist's eyes noted immediately the plumes of steam rising and the lobster-like effect it was having on her body. He bent over and turned the cold water up.

They stood there, staring at one another, breathing hard. Sara wondered if he would turn around and leave, if he would scream at her, if he might even hit her. After all, she had attacked him. She could not figure out why he was back in her apartment—she had watched him leave. Her shoulders quaked and her chest heaved with every panicked and painful breath.

And then he stepped into the tub, fully dressed, the water quickly soaking through his tee shirt and jeans. His feet were bare—he must have taken off his sandals and jacket when he had returned, probably while she slept. He reached out and pulled her to him, damp and naked behind the towel, and held her tightly.

"What happened?"

She could not move, so certain was she that she had slipped from one dream into another. She let her hands tentatively move around him, settling on his lower back, feeling the scratch of his beard against her temple. Her voice was a ragged whisper when she finally spoke. "I'm so sorry."

"Another nightmare?"

"Yes."

"The same?"

"No."

"What did she do to you?"

"Almost nothing."

"And I?"

She did not hold back. "You licked my blood from her hand. You fucked her while I bled to death in front of you. You orgasmed while you watched me die."

She was startled by the sound tearing out of his throat then, a pain-filled hybrid of a groan and a sob. "My god, Sara."

She carefully disengaged herself to wrap the towel more securely around her body before looking at him. Wet black cotton clung to his upper body, and beads of water dripped from his hair and face.

"Sara." He sounded desperate, and his hand came out to tilt up her chin, to force her to look into his eyes. "I don't know why you're dreaming these things, but—I would never—"

"I know," she replied, stepping forward into the spray and letting it rinse the salt of her tears and the sour taste of vomit away. She smoothed her soaking hair away from her face and turned around again, to let the hot water beat down on her back. "They're just dreams."

"You attacked me because of them."

"I was confused!" she protested. "You weren't supposed to be here. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

"I was worried about you. I slipped back in when I thought you had fallen back to sleep. You never locked your door."

"You should have stayed away," she said coldly. "I might have really hurt you."

He laughed, a bitter sound. "You think the fact that some part of your subconscious believes I'm capable of these things you're dreaming about doesn't hurt me? Christ, Sara, do you think I want to harm you? Kill you?"

"No." She closed her eyes. "I think you don't want me to be in love with you."

"You're not in love with me." The denial was quick and thick in his voice.

"No? Don't tell me how I feel, Grissom."

"So is this because I wouldn't have dinner with you? Because I was with someone else? Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything!"

"You're turning me into a villain."

"It's a nightmare!" she screamed, and he flinched. "I can't stop it, I can't change it, I can't do anything about it. You think I'm enjoying this? It's bad enough when you're not here. It's worse when you are. Just leave me alone!"

"Planning to never sleep again?"

"I quit," she said in a low voice, and his eyes widened. "I am done with you, I am done with Vegas, and I am done with death and blood and everything else that makes me crazy and makes me drink and dream of rape and murder and you. I don't hear Kaye Shelton's screams anymore, or see Donna Mark's dying eyes. I hear my own. I see my own. You're killing me, Grissom, and that's what the dreams mean, and there's your analysis and your understanding and your fucking meaning." She gasped for air, breathless in her own rage. "I don't understand you, but whose fault is that? It sure as hell isn't mine. I have tried everything I know, and you would rather sleep with a dominatrix you barely know than have dinner with me. And that is just fine, because I never want to see you again, dreaming or awake." She wrenched off the water and stepped out of the shower, striding to her bedroom and curling up in a ball on her bed.

Her front door slammed shut, heralding Grissom's departure, and no tears came to her eyes. She lay in bed, staring at the wall, eyes wide and dry, soaking her clean green sheets.

* * *

TBC...

(Have faith, my dears. I would never leave you in despair. ~Bella)


	6. Revelations

Author's Note: I always keep my promises. This is the last pre-written segment I have to submit. From here, I have to pick up the story and finish it, unless you think it ends well here. Any thoughts? PM me or leave an idea in your review.

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Chapter Six: Revelations

Hours later, her phone rang, and she ignored it. When it rang for the third time, she picked it up and hurled it at the wall. At one point, a tentative knock sounded at her door, but even though she knew the door was unlocked, she did not move to see who it was or answer it or even slide the deadbolt home.

She watched the thin slivers of light that snaked past her shades glow gold, then crimson, then fade to black lightly touched with silver, and back to gold. She knew then that she had gone an entire half-day without moving, without eating or sleeping or turning to stare at the green glowing numbers on her bedside clock.

She started at the soft sound of her front door opening, then closing softly behind someone. She wanted to roll over and meet the eyes of her intruder, but she felt frozen in place, every muscle taut and aching. After a moment, the bed dipped behind her again, and a hand reached over to smooth the hair out of her face.

"Sara."

She stiffened at his voice but refused to turn around. "Doesn't anyone in this goddamn city knock anymore?"

"I'm sorry. I was a bit at a loss."

"You know, I'm not really sure what you're even doing here," Sara snapped, finally turning to face him. Dark blue button-up, black suede jacket, navy blue slacks. Slightly mussed hair, close-cropped beard, piercing blue eyes—she swallowed hard. God, she was actually going to miss him. She fought past the tender emotions welling up. "I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again."

The look on his face was so sad she nearly started crying. "I guess a part of me hoped that was just aftermath. I hoped you didn't mean it."

She steeled herself. "I meant it."

"All right." He rose and turned to go, and she felt a pain so sharp in her chest she wondered frantically if hearts could physically break.

"Wait."

He stopped but did not turn. "Sara, if you're going to say something else about your nightmares, or give me some cruel parting words, save it. I don't think I can take anymore."

"I—" What could she say? He was right; nothing she could say would make it better now. She could not apologize for her insane subconscious, or offer advice as to what might dispel the dreams and restore her trust. She dropped her head and stared at the floor. "Nothing. Never mind."

Grissom sighed. "Fine."

"I'm sorry."

He stiffened. She continued in a rush. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to tell you about the nightmares. I know they don't really mean anything, or maybe they do, but I don't know what it is. And I'm sorry I said anything, and that I hurt you."

"You seemed pretty certain that you knew what they meant yesterday. You said I was killing you."

Sara pressed a hand to her throat. It was now or never. She could not hold anything back—what was the point, anyway? So she just let it go. "That's how it felt. That's how it feels. Because it feels like I'm drowning every time I look at you, and I wish that were just a metaphor, but it's not. I can't catch my breath, my chest aches and my head hurts and I just long—I long—for everything I can't have. That's why it hurts so badly when you shut me out, when you turn me down, when you turn me away. All I've ever wanted since the moment I moved to Vegas is you. Fuck the job, fuck the desert and the bodies and the science…you're it for me, and the only reason I would ask you to leave me alone is to try and survive. To try and catch my breath, before I really do drown."

He had turned to face her during her monologue, his face no longer impassive as it so often was, but flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes actually glistening. He looked like he was barely holding himself back from crossing the room to her, and she lifted beautiful dark eyes to his, not bothering to disguise the tears slipping from her eyes and falling in wet streaks to her cheekbones and chin. "All it would take from you is just a few simple words to give me some shred of hope, and I'm just crazy enough that I would stay. And given some time, and space, everything would probably be okay again."

He swallowed. "I can't give you time and space, Sara."

She fought back the urge to sob. "Okay."

"Sara." He moved toward her—hurried, stumbling steps.

"It's fine." She tried to force a smile.

"No." He caught her hands in his. "Sara—" He fumbled for words. "Time and space would mean leaving you—leaving you alone. And I can't. Not anymore."

"What—"

"Do you have any idea how badly it hurt me when you said I was killing you?" The rawness of emotion on his face tugged at Sara's heartstrings.

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop." His voice was more anguished than she had ever heard in years of friendship, and with one tug Grissom had her on her feet and in his arms. "Please, Sara, stop."

His lips met hers in a swift movement, warm and a little desperate, and she felt her head swim a little as she clutched at his shoulders and kissed him back thoroughly, deeply. "Grissom," she moaned softly, when they parted for breath.

He gazed at her with darkened eyes, an expression she had never seen before in them. "No more nightmares," he murmured, his hands a little rough on the sides of her face. She drew in a shaky breath.

"Stay with me," she responded. In response, he kissed her again, letting his hands fall to the now-dry towel still wrapped around her body. For the first time, she really became aware that she was in his arms with only a layer of cotton separating her from his intense gaze. Trembling, she drew back, but he caught her back to him with one lazy tug of his arm around her waist.

"You need some sleep," he said slowly, the heat in his eyes belying his thoughtful words. Sara smiled gently.

"You're not wrong."

"I'm staying with you," he said firmly. "Not just because you asked me to, but because—" He drew in a breath. "I never want you to wake from a nightmare alone again."

"Planning to move in with me?" she asked lightly. He just stared into her eyes for a moment before gently pushing her toward the bed. Taking the hint, she slipped under the sheets again, watching as he toed off his shoes and slid in beside her.

"Is this how you thought I would finally wind up in your bed?" Grissom teased her, tugging her into his arms. Despite the foreign sensation of his warm body curved around hers, Sara found herself relaxing into his embrace. She laughed.

"Closer," she admitted, and he kissed her forehead.

"Maybe we'll start with a good night's sleep," he suggested. Sara feigned disappointment, but in reality, the warmth and comfort of him beside her was already lending weight to her overtaxed eyelids.

"See you in the morning?" she murmured, nestling her cheek into his chest.

"Always," he whispered, and she drifted off.

* * *

TBC???


End file.
